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When I came home from Taiwan I missed
deep fried chicken feet like
the way a person misses
to-go cups. like
toe nails soaked in oil
‘til soft.
purple-white, tentacle-suction-cups
draped like jewelry across
pink plastic buckets
the automated voice that
sings
to the swish and ding of
7-11’s
whiskey bottle, cigarette-soft porn.
(swish ding swish ding)
Coming home was like
loosing every shattered part.
like your smoke-stained, red wine fingers
pressed to my knees
in the shape of lips.
like each bing-lung splattered
fish-lined back street
protesting.
raised in silent, clenched fist.
now all of this is
someone else’s
to miss.